We Were Gods
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Highly esteemed professor, Arthur Kirkland, comes across a young man who had purposefully removed himself from the world and lived on a farm. It shouldn't be an issue, right? But the man, Alfred, has a brain unlike anyone Arthur had ever seen. By attempting to examine the anomaly, Arthur delves into the psyche of a man that perhaps he never should have met. Mild UsUk, human AU
1. Polished Oak

1

Polished Oak

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><p>Alfred stared across the table.<p>

"Piss off."

The professor pressed his lips into a fine line. He laced his fingers and set them over the stack of papers. A pen rolled away from him. He watched it clatter to the hard wood floor.

"No."

Alfred chuckled, shrugging.

"OK, fine, _fuck _off."

"We're not getting anywhere this way, Mr. Jones, and you know that." Professor Kirkland said with a vague nod.

"Do I look like the kind of guy who cares? No, really, please, humor me, professor." Alfred said, spreading his muscled arms outwards and then pointing towards his chest. His blue eyes twinkled. He crinkled his nose in a smile that appeared much more like a leer than even he intended.

Kirkland shook his head.

"You look like fucking Christmas tree." Alfred said when Kirkland continued his silence.

Kirkland didn't even look down. He knew how his ironed green suit and thin red tie could resemble Christmas colors, but he had to digress. The green was far too pale and the red far too close to blood. If anything, he looked like a militant with a Brazilian neck-tie. Kirkland sighed and brushed his shock of wheat-yellow hair back. Alfred's eyes didn't even pass over his unseemly features.

The grandfather clock chimed at the other end of the farmhouse. Arthur saw a pig trot by outside the window and refrained from shuddering. The floors were clean and had a slight gleam when touched by warm sunlight. Alfred didn't hide his pride in the house he built with his bare hands.

"You're a strong kid." Kirkland said.

"Like hell I am."

"But mouthy."

"Who cares? I get shit done."

"And vulgar."

"You got that right, professor."

"And dangerously intelligent." Arthur Kirkland smiled at him.

"So I can do a few science problems without a hitch." Alfred said, looking uncomfortable. His gaze turned away, his handsome profile framed by sunlight. He crossed his arms and glowered. "What the fucking hell do you want from me?"

"I only want you to come and take a test."

Alfred said nothing. He watched as his pigs walked by. A young girl ran after them, her eyes serious with her desire to work. She held a bag of feed for their chickens. Arthur couldn't see her face and noticed a thick gold-blonde braid poked out from under her hat. She wore a simple frock.

The silence drew on. Alfred said nothing still. He must be, what, Arthur thought. Twenty? Twenty-one? No older than twenty-five. But he had matured well beyond his years, save for his occasional outbursts of nasty, middle-school language.

"Is she your sister?" Arthur asked. "Looks like you."

The girl passed the window again, turning to look into the window. She had freckles on her cheeks and her eyes were the same color as Alfred's—clear, poignant blue. Her lips were the color of plums and she shared Alfred's stern brow. She nodded politely at Arthur and grabbed the window, forcing it open.

"She isn't my sister." Alfred said.

The girl leaned through the window. "Pa, do you want to have eggs tonight? There're four extra."

"That sounds fine, Sam." Alfred said, waving a hand.

"Want some, mister?" She turned towards Kirkland.

Kirkland shook his head. "No, young lady, but I am flattered by your darling offer. Perhaps another day."

Sam shrugged and shut the window, "here, kitty, kitty, kitty," she called, ducking down.

Arthur stared at Alfred in a state of mild shock. He was a professor. He had seen wily teenagers become stunned parents in a matter of months. But the girl, she was at least eight or nine.

Then again, Arthur hadn't had much luck guessing lately.

"She's my daughter." Alfred explained.

"How old is she?" Arthur asked, trying to sound conversationally curious.

"Oh lie you give a fucking damn about how old she is. You want to know which broad I got laid with at what age to get a little kid. And fuck you. She's the damn best kid on the entire planet. Does her work without me asking her, does well in school, and is the sweetest thing you'd ever seen. Wish her ma could have seen her, though. She would have been proud. Well, she would have been proud if she wasn't a scared shitless whoring, cunt-faced bitch."

"What a complex string of curses." Arthur muttered weakly.

Alfred was a proud man. Of his house. Of his kid. Of his life. Now, to make him proud of his brain.

"But if you gotta know, she's nine and I'm twenty-five. Made a mistake at sixteen. Most guys do that, but I fucked up good." Alfred shrugged and picked up his glass of water. He took a long drink, watching bubbles of air bubble and turn yellow.

The doors slid open and Sam walked in. She set a basket full of eggs on the table. She set them aside and excused herself, walking away to leave the men alone.

"Why do you live here?" Arthur asked.

Alfred didn't reply.

"Why not in the city? With your mind you can work anywhere."

Arthur pretended as if he hadn't heard Arthur.

"Fine, don't answer my questions, don't take the bloody test, but at least stop by the college in the city, University of the Cyclamen. I want to speak more with you. I want you to learn. I don't care if the bloody board wants your money, I want your mind to expand. I want what's best for you. I want you to come and just take a look around. Please." Arthur slid a card with the address across the table.

The card fluttered to a stop next to Alfred's hand. He looked down at it, picking it up and looking over the card.

"Why?"

Arthur's eyes widened.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want me to go?"

"So you can have a better life, for one thing. I have other reasons, I am not a simple man, no one is I gather, but let me explain. Make more money, be happier, don't overwork yourself. Don't make your daughter work. Let her live better. If you love her then why don't you try to make her life better?"

Alfred huffed. "Look, you fucking prick, how the hell would getting more money make her happier? She gets food, I work at a electricity company, she gets a roof over her head. Isn't that enough? Money would muddle her brain. She'll get the education she deserves, which is far more than I do, and she'll go to college."

"Isn't it at least tempting?" Arthur paused, shook his head. "You're your own man. You seem to have things settled."

"You don't know fucking jack-shit about me." Alfred said, squinting at Arthur. Arthur noticed that he seemed to need glasses.

"Maybe I don't. I want to learn more. But you have to let me. Men would kill for an opportunity that you have. Why not take it?"

"I—"

"No." Arthur raised his hands. "I don't want to hear it. Come if you want, tomorrow at five. If you don't show up then I'll take it as a 'no' and that will be the end of it. I'll never bother you again." He gathered his coat and walked towards the door.

He paused before the wooden frame, his hand resting on the polished wood. He was waiting for a "good bye", or "I'll come", or "wait hold on", or even a "get loss, asshole". Nothing came. Arthur tossed a glance over his shoulder, well aware that he had exposed himself as weak, and looked at Alfred. Alfred was staring at the card, his cheek against his tightened fist. Scars lined his forearms and a light tan spanned over most of his skin.

Arthur, settled now that no reply would come, turned towards the door and left.

* * *

><p><em>I don't own Hetalia<em>

_Inspired by many things, namely _The Outsiders, Good Will Hunting, _and _Entre les murs.

_Hope you enjoy. If you do, please drop a review! _


	2. Dusty Shelves

2

Dusty Shelves

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><p>On Thursday, five pm, Arthur waited in his office. Light poured through the windows, painting his shelves of book a near white color. Autumn was looming, sending cold breezes traipsing through the country like troops of men. Arthur sipped his coffee, looking up at the clock. The long hang poised elegantly on the twelve, the shorter one of black wires and complicated swirls, waited on five.<p>

And Arthur was alone.

His cheeks burned with emotion. He had work to do. It would be a blessing of the boy didn't show up. He turned to the thick volume on his desk, next to a packet of papers filled with his own nasty scrawl. Pens and papers sat in disarray around his table. He chose one and picked up a page and began to mark notes on a mathematical proof he did in his spare time.

He wasn't a big fan of math or of science. He was a man of history, philosophy, literature. Numbers should have bored him to tears. And yet, there was pleasure in deriving straightforward numbers from a grid of lines and matrices. Arthur worked on it.

The paper filled with his notes. The long hand marched steadily towards the six. Still no one joined him. Even his colleagues seem to have taken it upon themselves to ignore Arthur as completely as they could.

Drawing no closer to an answer, Arthur paused. Although he appeared to have been deeply engrossed with the sets of numbers, his mind was far away. He was thinking still of Alfred and hanging on to a dear, slim, fragile hope that he would appear.

The long hand pinter solemnly at the nine. Forty-five minutes late. Hey, maybe he was just a tardy boy.

Or he didn't want to come.

Fine, then. Arthur thought. He sat back with a huff, his brows furrowing. Be that way. _Abandon all your dreams and hopes and goals! Abandon everything! Leave me! Disappoint a poor man like myself, why don't you? _

Arthur's temper worsened and climbed to a crescendo, namely because Alfred hadn't showed up. And in part because he had hoped so much for it to happen. He felt like a deflated balloon, and like an imbecile too. Arthur licked his lips, staring at the door.

His thoughts drifted back towards the farm, with its lone cow and pig, plus the five chickens. On top of that Alfred had a job and Sam had school. How did they manage a farm like that? Albeit, it was certainly minuscule when compared to the major producers of wheat or beef. This farm was a baby compared to those monsters. Yet, it still needed maintenance. Someone needed to clean the house, cook the food, care for the animals. At least there wasn't an acre of farmland to tend to, only the handful of animals.

How did that freak genius of a young man manage that?

The door pushed open. Arthur tried to swallow his excitement. It was six pm. The excitement that was born was extinguished just as quickly. Arthur's colleague, one he didn't take to well, entered. He approached Arthur with a warm smile.

"I see that proof has stumped you, dear friend." He said.

"As stumped as a tree chopped down for lumber," Arthur said sarcastically. "I haven't had time to do it. I'm not on a time limit, am I? Is there a hidden dead line you didn't tell me about?"

"No, no," the man said and took a seat on one of the plump leather sofas across from Arthur.

The man, Francis Bonnefoy, originally François, regarded him with lofty familiarity. He crossed his leg, ankle over knee. "I can't give you a hint to my own proof, that would be cheating."

"I never asked for any of your help." Arthur stated warily.

"You implied it."

"Ah, now I see why you majored in science and not psychology."

"You failed psychology in high school."

"And that is why I didn't major in that subject either. No, too many odds and ends and inconsistencies."

"Unlike history?"

"That, my friend, is different."

Arthur laughed despite his contempt. He smiled at Francis and walked around the desk, leaning against it. A book shifted as he did, revealing the corner of a tattered, yellowed paper. Francis stared at it curiously.

Arthur met his gaze, flushing. "Now, Francis, what you might be thinking of saying…"

"I'm not thinking about it, I'm doing it. How did it go with Mr. Jones?"

Arthur paled.

"I assume you were unsuccessful."

Arthur raised his hands, shaking his head. "You see, he's a _very _stubborn boy."

"He is a man, he makes his own decisions." Francis returned.

"But his genius is far too valuable to waste."

"Perhaps in your opinion, but not in his."

Arthur slammed his hand against the table, resorting to one of his trademark mood swings. His face crimsoned. "Oh, like you met him. You should have heard his rotten tongue, flapping out insult after insult. Your mother would weep if she had only moment to speak with him."

"My mother didn't remember my name most days." Francis said quietly.

Arthur turned so his reddened, shamed, and engirded face could not be seen. He stared out the window, down at the passing cars and students.

"Well, he was a horrible brute. A barbarian, if I might say. He's terribly stubborn and vulgar, which would not be too bad if he wasn't fathering a little girl."

Francis perked up.

"Is that so?"

"Oh, yes, I'm afraid to say it's the dire truth. His circumstances left him poor and, well, unlucky." Arthur said.

"Why unlucky? Is he unhappy? Does he drink?"

"I didn't see a drop of liquor in his house. And if he did, it would be more than hypocritical for me to admonish that action of all things."

"Does he smoke?"

"Good heavens, he's fit as a body builder minus all the steroids and stupidity."

"Does he go off with courtesans?"

Arthur gave him a bemused look. "Now you jest."

Francis returned his look with on of benevolence. He uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet. His blond, sweeping curls had been pulled into a red ribbon. His square chin shadowed with the ghost of a bear, and his build French in its wiriness and tone. He was a handsome man, as most young women thought, and a romantic too. Arthur was jealous of him for it, but impressed nonetheless.

Arthur turned away, taking a tissue from the box at his desk. He took it to the bookshelf and rubbed it against the dust, marking the tissue and puffing up particles of dirt. "He's a mess. Catatonic. Soon he'll combust."

"And forcing him to take classes here, to submit to your examinations, and to eventually work here somehow weakens the chances of his inevitably eruption?" Francis questioned.

Arthur shook his head. "No, I'll help him. He fathers this girl the way he would want a father to, ah, father him. But he keeps building up this damage, this darkness. I want to help him."

"You want to be his father?"

"No, his teacher. That is what I signed up to do. He's interesting, I can't help it, I am a learned man. I am a glutton of knowledge. It is my fatal flaw."

He faced Francis and held up the tissue, now turned soot-black.

"What does this tell you?" Arthur grinned.

"That you have a dusty book shelf. Why don't you hire a maid or ask a student in detention to clean it up for you?"

Crumpling the tissue, Arthur threw it away. "No! Firstly, I want no one to touch these books. Second off, I was making a metaphor."

"You saved all that dirt for a metaphor?" Francis asked, his brow rising. "I'm impressed."

"Oh shut it. You know what I meant. His soul's black as dirt and soon it will be as rich as ash."

Upset that his performance went unheeded, he plumped down on the sofa next to Francis. Francis watched his agitated movements, like a cat who had lost its prey. Francis felt pity and offered a drink. Arthur refused promptly.

They remained that way. Francis let Arthur to mull over his thoughts. He could never tell what filled that cramped, clever head. Despite all his faults, Francis believed Arthur was a good man. Arthur had set aside his scholarly goals to help the young man. He would drop his umbrella in the pouring rain and run a mile if only to help a duck cross the street. Francis had seen him do it. Soaked, but pleased, Arthur had smiled all the while.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Arthur grumbled.

The door slid open and light foot steps echoed through the chamber. Arthur sat up and looked at the visitor. The girl, young, with her light hair plaited and her hardened features puffy with tears, stood before him. She held a box and set it on the table.

"What's this, young lady?" Francis asked gently.

"A gift," Sam stated simply. Her frown softened at his gentle tone.

"What for?"

"I want you to please forgive daddy for all the mean things he said. I want him to come here." She said.

Arthur stood up, ignoring the gift. "Does he know you're here?"

"No."

Francis eyed the blackened tissue in the waste basket.

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><p><em>Thank you so much for the reviews! And yes, I apologize for the bad language here and there. <em>


	3. Chocolate

3

Chocolate

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><p>Sam sat in one of the plushy pink chairs Arthur kept in his study. Students often had visited him for help and he had discovered, through careful observation, that the most distressed students chose the cozy chair, despite its often prejudiced color.<p>

She held a cup of tea to her lips. Warm wisps of steam rose from the green cup. She stared at her amber reflection. Her tears had long dried. Francis had left for one of his afternoon classes.

Arthur sat across from her, ankle over knee, and moving his foot restlessly. "So he doesn't know you're here? How'd you get here?"

"It wasn't hard." She said, a Southern twang dangling on her words. She stubbornly refused to let it go. She lowered the cup on to her lap, her reddish-purple dress bunched up on her lap. "I went to a friend. I told daddy I would be with Gretchen and that's where I went. Her older brother, Electric C—we call him that 'cause of an accident—offered to drive me to town. I said I had to see to the library. I went there and I waited for his red truck to leave. After that I walked here. He said to ring up a pay phone and tell him when to come get me. He has an awful soft spot for kids, he says."

"You're well spoken, young lady." Arthur said.

"Thank you."

Arthur watched her adjust her dress. She didn't turn to him.

"Does your father let you wear trousers?"

"You mean pants? Sure he does, but I told daddy that I wanted to do a play tea party with Gretchen so I wore this, to be believable."

Arthur began to wonder if Alfred's genius was present in his kin as well. Was unnaturally high IQ genetic? He was hungry for information and had to refrain from begging the girl to convince her father to simply show up.

He didn't have to.

"Why'd you come then, young lady?" Arthur asked politely.

Sam looked to wear Francis had been sitting. Without the Frenchman, Arthur would never have comforted her into detailing anything without bursting into tears. With her passing glance, Arthur felt inadequate.

"I came to get daddy to come to you. He's miserable."

"Does he hit you?" Arthur asked, his eyes burning with half-hidden rage.

"No!" Sam said, shaking her head furiously. "No, he'd never. But I see him brooding. He doesn't drink or smoke, so he doesn't do anything bad. He just sits there… Thinking. He never stops and sometimes he walks through our little farm without a word. I'm worried for him."

Arthur nodded. "I see. How do you expect him to come? He's a stubborn man."

"I don't know." Her eyes began to water.

Arthur flushed. "Oh, dear, I'm sorry child. I forgot your age. Do you want a chocolate? Yes, there, take one." He nodded towards the gilded basket of wrapped chocolates set on the table next to the puffy pink chair.

She looked at it and picked out one wrapped in white paper. She unraveled it and ate it, smiling. "It's good."

"It's from Belgium. A good friend sent them. She has remarkable taste." Arthur watched the girl regard the chocolates, twisting the used wrapper between her small fingers. Her nails were short and scarred. "She's also frightfully intelligent. She trumps me at any moment. And she's very lovely and kind."

"What does she look like?" Sam asked quietly.

"Oh, she's a small woman with curly blonde hair. And she… She's pretty, I guess you would say. Her eyes are bright green, like emeralds."

"She sounds pretty." Sam agreed.

"You would do well to meet her."

Sam frowned, turning back to Arthur. "I still don't know what to do."

"Well, if we have a big problem, the best thing to do is to chop it into smaller, chewable pieces." Arthur advised. "Do you know _why _he doesn't want to come? Is it his pride?"

Sam shook her head.

Arthur perked up. Just when he thought he could find out nothing more about the boy, that he had reached a dead end, there was a glimmer of hope. If Alfred wouldn't assert himself, his kin would have to.

"Then why?"

"He had a bad experience with school before. He says that they weren't nice to him. You said he was smart, so I don't understand why they wouldn't like him." Her gaze radiated innocence.

Arthur nodded, contemplating to himself.

If he was treated badly, the school probably had a reason, no matter how botched. His history must be truly as bad as Arthur had suspected. Something in his family perhaps, some string of corruption that the school district considered a potential threat. Naturally, as instincts go, he was outcasted and therefore developed an even rougher hide. Had he been allowed and welcomed, perhaps his old wounds could have healed better

Or maybe not.

Maybe Alfred was born as a distrustful, cynical infant. Maybe he was born with an unending supply of love for mankind and good. It was hard to tell what a man once was when his past took great care to mask itself in his present.

Arthur, then, smiled.

Sam watched as he stood and dug through his mountains of books. He discovered an older tome with gold printing on a black cover. He set it on his table and turned to his desk. He scribbled something down on the paper and returned to Sam.

"Let's get you home before your father starts to worry and shoots the neighbors."

Sam cracked a smile.

"Are you planning something, sir?"

"Nothing complex, I'm not a clever enough man to pull anything like that off. However, I think I know how to convince him. I'll take you home and you should tell the truth. If you don't, well… I don't quite know what to say."

"I told E.C. that I would call him to take me home." She said.

"Ah—even better. I'll take you back to the library and you go home. Tell your father your ran into me in the library and give him this." He handed her the note he had scribbled down. "If he doesn't read it, well, that's that. I guess I'll have to give up." He added with a note of sorrow.

She shook her head. "Daddy'll come. I'll make him."

"Thank you, Sam."

"Oh—and he did say something about you after you left, I just remembered."

"And that would be…?"

"He said he could have sworn up and down he'd seen you before."

"Is that so?" Arthur said, expression hardening. "I've never seen him before this day. Interesting notion. Now, let's get you home." He began to usher her out the door. She snagged one last candy and tucked it in the front pocket of her dress, thanking him over and over.


	4. Speed of Darkness

4

Speed of Darkness

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><p>"As for the final question: tell me about you life around here." Francis asked, setting his books aside and lacing his fingers. He leaned forwards earnestly, ready to listen to whatever the student had to say.<p>

"Life 'round here. I can't say it's easy. But you could say the ditches in the streets are a perfect example of why I hate it here." The young man said. He was slumped deeply in his chair. "It's shallow and when you ride over it in your car, you feel like spitting insult after insult."

"Very poetic, young man." Francis said. "Now, you may leave."

The young man bade him farewell and slumped out the door, humming a low tune to himself. As he left, another figure rushed in behind him. The door swung shut behind her and she approached Francis' desk. She set her hands on the desk and rose to her toes.

"Hello, Sam." Francis said, already digging up one of his agendas. He found the homework he had assigned his class the night before, judged what percent of the class actually did it, and tried to decide whether or not to review matrices.

"Francis?" She asked, picking up a mint from the desk and walking to the leather chair. Now unoccupied, she climbed on to it and sat, her legs under her. She wore jeans and a white shirt, picking at the wrapper.

"Yes, Sam?"

"Can you go to Arthur's room with me?"

"Did your father decide against showing up?" Francis looked up from his pencil. He could have sworn he heard an exasperated Arthur shuffling down the hallway.

"No, he's here, but I'm afraid they'll rip each other's throats out soon."

"That seems highly unlikely."

"I meant I'm afraid Mr. Kirkland would do something to my dad."

"Now that is even _unlikelier."_

Sam frowned. "Really?"

"Yes, take a look at their personalities as variable x and y."

Sam interrupted him hastily. "I know, Mr. Kirkland is too kind and daddy doesn't like hurting people."

Francis regarded her quietly. She was chewing on the mint, tossing the wrapper away. Her hair had been pulled into a sloppy ponytail, a trademark of single fathers, and her bright, clear eyes were waiting for his reply patiently.

Sighing, Francis set his papers aside, motioning for her to lead the way. She happily jumped off the couch and started towards Arthur's office. "Too smart for your own good, child." Francis remarked.

"That's what they tell us all the time." Sam shrugged.

Intelligence breeds more intelligence, perhaps? Francis thought about it, thinking back to his broken knowledge of biology and the section titled genetics. He fell asleep during that class three times. Only the math intrigued him. And, at times, the poetic value of tiny microbes on each living being, and living beings even smaller than that—it went on and on and Francis, a glutton for the symbolism in anything, soaked it up.

Sam pushed open Arthur's door and walked in. She took her seat on the pink plush chair. Francis stood near the book shelf. Neither man in the room acknowledged the newcomers.

Arthur was staring at Alfred. Alfred was staring at Arthur. Neither moved. Neither made a sound. Arthur drummed his fingers against the desk. Alfred leaned back on the chair, a grim look of content painted over his features.

A glanced passed between Francis and Sam.

No one knew what to do.

Arthur's hair as tangled and standing on end, a sign that he had been running his hands through it often: frustration. Alfred was also seemingly frustrated. Behind Arthur a sheet of paper scribbled over with complicated math and scientific formulas was lying. Arthur's breathing was coming in short gasps.

"I'm right." Alfred said, finally breaking the silence.

"Francis!" Arthur snapped harshly. He snatched the paper and walked to Francis, shoving the paper towards him. "_Read the bloody thing and tell me it's false._" he spat. Francis took a step back and regarded the paper patiently. Arthur's cheeks were bright red.

"What did you do, dad?" Sam asked.

"Sam, if you eat any more of those mints you might form an addiction. What will I do, then? All my money would go into mints, I would have to invest into mint factories, a portion of the money would come back, and then there will be jealous, confused men. Eventually, it will even out so my money circulates. I put money in, I earn it back through stocks, and steadily my little girl becomes not so little anymore."

Sam giggled.

"All right, I won't have anymore." She shoved the last one in her pocket and held out her hands.

An insane smile creeped up on Arthur. His eyes flicked between the two.

"Don't give us that look, doc." Alfred warned.

"I am not a doctor and I was only admiring your skill at parenting."

"Maybe if you become a parent you wouldn't have to stare at other people who were successful in their role of evolution."

Arthur turned away from him. He watched as Francis nodded.

"It's right."

Arthur waited for Alfred to yell triumphantly. He glowered at the young man who was currently scowling playfully at a fitfully giggly Samantha Jones. Alfred noticed Arthur's persistent stare and stopped his stretched expressions.

He returned the glare. They were back where they started.

"You get along about as well as I do with the old, dusty professor." Francis commented.

Alfred snorted in laughter.

Arthur struggled in trying not stab the two with a pen.

"What did you want from me, old man?" Alfred asked Arthur at last.

Arthur gesticulated silently.

"You wanted me to yell 'hallelujah' I was right about knowing I was right when I was undoubtedly right? Now that seems like a waste of good Oxygen."

"That was perhaps the biggest exploit of the vital element than any sort of triumphant gesture would have been." Arthur responded calmly.

Sam watched them eagerly.

Francis noted how clean Alfred's vocabulary was. "Child," he said, calling her over. She stood and traipsed across the room, reaching for another mint. Alfred shooed her hand away without turning around.

She frowned behind his back but respectfully obeyed.

"Yes?"

Francis told her to get a paper from his office, one that was yellow with green pen marked all over it, on the third drawer to the bottom.

Sam gave him a confused look.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You don't have three levels of drawers." She whispered in explanation. Something about the tension seemed to press down on the volume of her voice. "You only have two. I could tell from how big the desk was. Also, I could see that you didn't have three."

"Observant." Francis nodded. "But I never said it was in my desk."

"You mean on your book shelf?"

"Yes, there's an armoire there."

"Why?"

"Are you questioning your elders? Now follow the orders of this annoying old professor and do it, child." He smiled.

She obeyed at last. Once she left Alfred heaved a sigh.

"Look you old bastard," he said, "What else do you have for me? I can't miss much more work. Why don't you give me a few to take home?"

"Don't you have animals to care for."

Alfred's expression darkened.

Arthur pressed his lips together. Francis wanted to interpose, but Alfred shook his head.

"No, I had to sell them yesterday." Alfred gazed out the window. "We're moving into the city, into an apartment here. It'll be closer to her school and to my work anyway. A few minutes, at least."

This was Alfred's fifth visit. The first had been a grudging success. Now it seemed to have formed into a habit for Alfred, for whatever reason. Arthur leaned uncomfortably against the desk.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think I would have cut you off from work that much."

Alfred shook his head, giving the first sign that he didn't absolutely hate Arthur.

"Don't be. It had to happen anyway. The cow was getting old. We couldn't manage all this at the same time. But it was pretty damn fucking nice to live in this paradise for a little while."

Francis stared at Alfred. Was this a door into his psyche? Alfred licked his lips, shaking his head again. He ran his hand through his hair.

"But things, they've got to change, don't they? They always do. And we hate it, but it still changes. Ironically, the one thing that we can't change is how we feel." Alfred scoffed. "Look at me, blabbing like a fucking bitch about all these feelings. I should be a real man, at least, a brave hero. If anything, for Sam."

The door slid open and Sam walked in, holding a green sheet of paper with black pen scribbled notes across it. "Is this it? I didn't find a yellow paper with green writing." She said earnestly.

Francis took it, thanking her. "I wanted to look over this." Francis read through the notes describing darkness vs. light and how quick they were relative to each other. Nothing was complete yet, aside from half-done hypotheses. He took it and went back to his room, letting Alfred return to his witticism and crass slang.

He set the paper on the edge of his desk, flipping open a book and reading through it, not caring what it was. He just wanted a distraction. Something about Alfred's tone and words had offset him.


	5. Uncle Matthew

5

Uncle Matthew

X

Everyday Seems a Little Longer

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><p>No one crossed Uncle Mattie's path, especially when it concerned Samantha. Once Alfred's hysteric girlfriend had foisted the crying bundle on the man and had vanished into the night, Matthew swooped in and starting caring for the girl. And once she had been swathed in his protection, she may as well try to get out of a sealed cement box.<p>

And today, since Alfred was at work and she had no school, she was staying with Uncle Matthew. Uncle Matthew greeted her with a swooping hug, his massive, bulging muscles enveloping her and his laugh ringing out.

"I haven't seen you in forever, kiddo!" He cried out. He set her on the floor and waved to Alfred in his truck.

Alfred, who watched through the window, pointed two fingers to his temple and flicked them towards Matthew. It was his trademark, cool good-bye. And Matthew didn't mind. Sam had started picking it up, using it on Francis on their previous visits. Francis and Arthur were baffled, thinking it was a military salute.

She told about the two professors to Matthew, who listened with a big smile.

Uncle Matthew was a hockey player, having lived a majority of his life in Canada, away from Alfred. His build, tall, prone to be lanky, was a sure sign of his training. He was built like a tank and his personality did not match. Not at _all. _Samantha liked that about him. He was full of surprises. She liked surprises, she concluded, therefore she liked people. Flawless logic, Francis said when she explaining that. Flawless.

But now she was with muscular, tough Uncle Matthew with a bad habit of caring for injured animals (he always had a bird or cat in his house at all times). It was no time for stingy professors. She walked into his living room and plumped down on the couch, her arms thrown over the side of the sofa.

"Uncle Mattie?" She called out.

Matthew walked towards her. He had been doing something near the window. She narrowed her eyes at him. He gave her a tense smile.

"What are you on about, Sam?"

She giggled at his accent.

"Do you think that Daddy will learn from the men? That he can make his life better? We're in this apartment and I _think _it's better. And dad smiles a lot less. I don't think that's good. He should be happy, shouldn't he? Why should he be upset all the time? It doesn't suit him at all."

Matthew had drifted back to the window, his massive form hunched over a cardboard box. Sam slid off the couch, regretting leaving it so soon, and walked casually towards it.

"Knowing your dad? He'd be fine even if he was living with only a sock and a paperclip. Somehow he'd find a way." Matthew said with a nod.

Sam peered over his shoulder, standing on her toes. Matthew moved so she couldn't see. She was growing flustered as her curiosity expanded. She walked around the other side. Matthew shifted again. The game continued. Sam pestered him with questions and he gave her vague responses.

"Where did you grow up?"

"Ottawa."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Why because? My teacher say that's not an answer."

"Because because because. See?"

"I don't think that makes sense."

"It will when you're older."

"Why does everyone say that?"

"People say 'that' because it's a useful word."

"No—I meant that whole 'when you're older' thing?"

"Because we're filthy liars and cowards, that's why."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Okay, next question. Did you fight with dad a lot?"

"Yes and no."

"Was it good having a brother?"

"Yes and no."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes…"

"…and no?"

"No. He's my brother."

And on and on it went. The dodging continued and Sam grew angrier and angrier. Her tongue grew sharper and her questions more cunning. She noticed Matthew wasn't doing anything to the cardboard box anymore. He was standing still, now. His beefy arms were planted on either side of the box, obstructing Sam's view.

She glared.

He looked back sheepishly.

"Can I please see?" She asked, giving up with a sigh.

"Ok." Matthew stepped aside.

Really? Sam should have been enraged, positively infuriated with how easy that was. She was too exhausted from the battle to care anymore. She peered into the box. A checkered red kerchief lined the inside. A few bread crumbs were scattered around a light blue bird with a bad wing.

She made a shrill sound of happiness that was something like "awwsocuteohmysooooocute!" but Matthew couldn't be sure.

She wanted to pet it. Matthew reached into the box and with a finger that really could constitute a smaller man's hand, delicately petted the bird's head. It ducked in affection. Sam started to suspect that Matthew was related to a princess.

His soft voice sounded next to her ear.

"It's a sweet thing, isn't it? So simple…"

Sam's smile vanished.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Didn't dad specifically tell you not to bring birds in?"

Matthew's grin didn't fade or waver, but his cheeks turned red and a flame of horror leapt into his eyes.

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Well, I could."

"But it was so helpless!"

"Dad says it brings in disease. I don't want my uncle sick." Sam argued.

"But… it was crying. I swear it was _weeping._" Matthew's smile turned into a pleading pout that somehow, on his body, looked intimidating.

"Birds don't cry!"

"It was gong to perish in the cold!"

"Evolution!"

"No! Please, don't tell your father. I forgot. Once it gets better I'll let it out. Promise. I'll never, ever bring in another bird."

Sam narrowed her eyes. She was not against keeping the helpless animal, but it was so, so terribly, cruelly fun to argue with her uncle. Especially since when he argued back it was purely out of emotion, not cold logic like her father.

Matthew must have noticed her hesitation.

"You won't tell him?"

"I won't tell him, but he'll find out. He can smell those things, you know."

Matthew furrowed his brows. "Your father isn't a hound dog."

Sam raised her eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

"Well, now that you mention it I can see what you meant."

And on it went. It was refreshing, thought Sam, to have a simple man to talk to rather than the over complicated professors and… whatever tangle of complexities her father was. How did she manage all this time? What would she do without Matthew? She didn't have answers to those questions, and she didn't really want them.

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><p><em>A bit of a different view on Matthew. I thought it would be a little fun.<em>


	6. It's All for Love, Honey I

6

It's All for Love, Honey

(Part I)

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><p>"That's a scary thought, don't you think?" Matthew asked. He pointed at the newspaper. It showed a picture of a cat in a basket rushing downstream. Poor babe. Sam looked over his shoulder and nodded. She was sleepy. Her blonde hair falling out over her face and her nightgown twisted. She had a toothbrush sticking out of her month. It took only a few days for her to get comfortable. Then again he was Matthew.<p>

Matthew read on. His eyes widened.

"Hey, Sammy, can you go get me some toast? I think I heard it ring."

She gave him a confused, sleepy look. But she obliged and trundled past him. Already in the kitchen, on of Matthew's close friends was just setting the toast.

Matthew leaned forwards. He wanted to burn the paper.

**YOUNG MAN ACCUSED OF MURDERING PROFESSOR**

No it couldn't be Alfred. Sure he got feisty but he wouldn't…

_Age 26, Alfred Fxxxx Jones was caught at the scene of college professor, Francis (birth name François) Bonnefoy's death. His body was found at the front of his desk, bent over with several stab wounds along the back and a long cut along the neck, cutting off the jugular vein. No eye witnesses could be found. The professor's coworker and friend, Arthur Kirkland, believes that Alfred was not the criminal. "The kid's a little off," he (32) says, "But he wouldn't kill anyone. He knows where he stands in the world, having a daughter and all. He would not sacrifice that for an old feud.[. . . ] No, I firmly believe that he is not at fault here. I have lost a dear friend and I want his killer rightly punished, and not an innocent man."._

"Aw fuck."

Matthew slapped a hand over his mouth. Luckily Sam didn't appear to have heard. He returned to the paper, shaking it a bit and trying to calm his trembling hands. First off, why did Bonnefoy sound familiar? Second off, Alfred was innocent but no way would he be let out easily. Unless he really did kill the professor. No. Matthew shook his head. That would not be something Alfred would do. Even if he was in one of his darker moods. And the fact he dropped off Sam was nothing. He did it often. Sam liked being in Matthew's cozy home and she liked having an older woman to talk to, Katrina. The apartment bothered her.

Why was Matthew even considering this. Alfred was bound to wallow behind bars for the rest of his life. He was the son of an addict. Matthew had gotten their father and lived with him, was taught, and had a relatively peaceful life. But Alfred, being the tougher and more pugnacious of the two, had ended up with their smoking, drunk, lazy mother. Any good officer would dig that up in a second.

Then they would trace Alfred to his daughter, then to him. Then they would interview Matthew.

_Do I even have a suit? _He asked himself. He had the tight beige discount suit with a clip-on tie he wore to professional games when he didn't play. But nothing fancy enough to convince the men that Matthew was an excellent caretaker and could protect Sam. He wasn't even married. The real problem arose then. What would happen to Sam? What would he tell her?

Matthew stood and tossed the newspaper in the trashcan. He walked into the kitchen where Katrina began to set the table. She smiled at him. Glistened loaves of toast, jam, coffee, orange juice, cereal, and sizzling pancakes—homemade of course—lined the table. An army ready for battle. Matthew sat uncomfortably in his sunlit seat.

Katrina sat opposite him. She smiled happily. She had short, wheat colored hair and a homey face that spoke all the lovely languages of her heritage. She was gorgeous and kind. She was a perfect role model for Sam.

Sam sat on her seat, now free of toothpaste suds and cleaned up. Katrina made sure of that. He called her over when Sam came. Katrina began to eat. Sam perked up, looking at Matthew.

"Did the cops lie?"

Matthew choked on his food.

"Sorry, maple child?" He asked, resorting to a nonsensical nickname.

"Did the cats die?" She repeated. Matthew was never more thankful for his mishearing.

"No, they got out just fine and found nice homes with lots of bowls of milk." Matthew insisted.

"Oh." She said. "You look sad."

"There was some sad news." Katrina said gently, cutting her pancake and munching on it.

"Yes," Matthew agreed, "Nothing a child needs to hear. The grown up world is a bad place. Take my advice when you grow up: don't."

Sam giggled.

They ate silently for a while. Matthew munched and munched, watching the sweaty, mean, criminal elephant in the room grow steadily bigger and bigger. He had to tell her eventually. She couldn't live with him forever. She'd have questions. Alfred was her father. He wasn't. He was her uncle, hopefully the nice, fun one. Not the one who spewed bad news and drew a dark line over his brow at each meal.

And the elephant breathed down his neck when he prepared Sam to go to school. She chimed happily that they always went on time _and _had breakfast. That was a rarity at home. She hitched her back pack over her shoulder and he drove her home.

The elephant sat in the backseat, huffing. Its tusks growing longer and poking Matthew in the neck.

He dropped her off and he went home. Now the elephants tusks were up his nose.

When he got back home Katrina had read the article and held it in her hand. She gave him a long, sorrowful look.

"You didn't tell her?"

"What am I going to say?" Matthew asked desperately. The elephant exploded into shimmering pieces, leaving a tiny elephant left. He could relieve some tension with Katrina. But when Sam got home the story would change and that elephant would inflate all over again.

"The truth." Katrina said, her voice heavily accented.

"Maybe I should talk to Arthur." Matthew said, avoiding her statement.

"Are you off today?"

"I work tonight."

"He lost a good friend." Katrina said. "Also, you never knew him. You might make him feel worse."

"I lost a brother." Matthew retorted, his face darker than before.

Katrina did not shudder. She sighed and patted his shoulder.

"Call me if you need help, but I have to go."

"Do you?"

She rounded on him, her eyes large and sad. Matthew regretted snapping.

"Sorry." He muttered.

She smiled.

"Don't worry, I'm just as sad as you are."

She shut the door behind her. Her promise did only extend to that morning, and maybe that night if Sam was to still stay. That promise would lengthen much more if Matthew decided to keep Sam over.

Finally Matthew made a choice. He walked over to the—he stopped. No. The school would know the news of what happened to Sam Jones' father. They would spread it like mosquitoes on a fervent pledge to spread disease. They would track her down. He got dizzy. No, not poor little Sam. He needed to call the school and tell them to let her go, just today until he figured it out, and then he had to call Arthur and apologize. So he tried to think like Alfred, pretending to smoke a cigarette (and not choke) and thought.

Reasons to call Sam first:

she was just a child and needed a supervising figure, no matter how strong she wasthe school would understandhe would not suffer British insultshe could take his mind away from Alfred, further than if he called Arthur.

Reasons to call Arthur first:

…

Reasons _not _to call Arthur first:

he was an adult he can handle his problems.

He picked up the phone and dialed the school. A few rings and the friendly, plump secretary picked up. He would work on thinking like Alfred later.

"Um hello," Matthew said after her preprogrammed introduction, "I need to pick up Samantha Jones"

…

"Yes I'm her uncle"

…

"Oh so it is you, Judy! Pleasure hearing you again, yeah"

…

"Yes, yes, I just need to pick her up for something important."

…

"So you did read the newspaper? No, I don't know what really happened but I do not want her finding out from her peers. So I want her not to know anything. Just say she has an appointment."

…

"I know I'm an idiot."

…

"But a very good hearted idiot? Why thank you ma'am."

…

"I'll be on my way. And thank you, thank you so much."

Matthew set the receiver down and went to the car. His heart thudded in his head. He drove to school in his rusty pick-up. His knuckles turned white. As expected the elephant expanded and was now nearly life size. Its trunk curled up by the window, creating a foggy impression against hard glass. Its tusks grinder against the metal of his car. Flabby skin hung around Matthew, suffocating him. His muscular arms tightened and he wanted to cry.

At least I can keep my bird a little longer.


	7. Rockets and Dim Blue Light

_This chapter is when the M rating really comes into play. You have been forewarned a long time ago._

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><p>7<p>

Rockets and Dim Blue Light

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><p>Memories:<p>

A child runs into his yard. The yard is filled with tangled, brown grass. A shed lingers in the far back, against a fence, with its wood cracked and a rusted shovel limply hanging against one side. Sharps things litter the grass, but the child knows better than to go near it.

He picks his way through the tangles. Inside the house a radio blazes and a pone rings. The woman inside is on the couch, unresponsive and giggling vaguely at something she must have found funny.

The child knew better than to stay near her. Before she became this way she would approach him and with haggard breath and broken lips whisper something into his ear. Her fingers dig into his shoulder. Fear prickles through his skin. His secondhand, cheap toys hang from his hands.

"Alfred, go outside."

He does not understand what exactly she would do, but it's scary and sometimes she hurt him. He has a bruise from when she threw her shoe at him, on his left shoulder.

But she loves him.

Right?

Regardless, the boy goes into the yard and lifts a tarpaulin next to the shed. Sticky fingers roam the neighborhood around them. It's best to hide his precious belongings. Alfred picks up the cardboard a sits down on the grass.

He sets them by each other, slowly but surely building a cardboard rocket.

For a while he would do this. Whenever his mother's rotten breath curled up his nostrils, carrying the sound of her order, he would go outside and build his rocket.

As he grew older the rocket matured. He understood what his mother was doing, he saw the needles and smoke, and instead of feeling fear his heart burned with rage. He tried to relax by building complex structures or reading anything from the library he could find (he had sapped the house's ten book personal library several times already) and it all still was't enough.

He grew to be a hateful, angry man.

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><p>More memories:<p>

This child grew up in a rented apartment in bustling London.

With sounds he hated keeping him up all night, and a miserable mother to give him half-cooked eggs and bacon for breakfast. And then to hear her weep during the day.

One evening, she returned and, before entering, tapped on the door to his room thrice. He perked up, tearing away from his beloved Vernes, and understood what she meant. He reluctantly set away the book and shut the lamp. He wasn't to make a sound: or else they wouldn't have anything to eat the next day.

why mama

men don't like guilt

She left it at that and Arthur new better than to press her for more information. Her hair was falling out then. She tucked it away and kissed his forehead.

Now, Arthur checked the time. It was nearly nine, just about time. He crawled under the covers, shielding his head. That didn't stop the noises.

First, grunts, soft talking. Tonight the man was silent. His trousers rustled and something hard—a wallet—fell to the ground. The bed croaked glumly. Arthur peeked out, checking to see that his door was locked. He could risk reading now… In an attempt to distract himself, he pulled the book back open and flicked a secondhand flashlight on, creating a tent. He paused, making sure there were no footsteps, and tried to read.

He couldn't.

_Professor Ahhh ahhh ohhhh noooo hahah nooo (grunts) ahhhh scholarly expeditions ooooooooohhhhhh you like that? no you dumb bitch groan but shut the fuck up gaahhhhh (the bed screaming for mercy under the incessant rocking) (howls) ahhhhhh ahhhhh hhhhuuuuuuuu gggguuuuuuuuhhhhhh shhhhiiiiiittttffffff (a smack) (a yelp) (a cruel laugh painted red with agony) you bitch mmmmmmmm what? I SAID SHUT UP DIDN'T I? ( a whimper of assertion) (a lashing of a belt) (a yelp) (silence) (silence) (silence) ahhhhhhhhhnnnnn (a woman's muted cry) nun…. _

Arthur snapped his book shut. He couldn't read. What had he been thinking? He restrained the urge to vomit and put the book away, softly, quickly. He tried not to listen, knowing that what he had heard would be repeated a couple times, two, three. And then the man would, in his guilt, stand up and force his clothes back on. Then he would put the crumpled bills on the bed and walk out, slamming the door behind him.

Then the laments would follow. A woman's woeful cries. Then silence. Sleep would wash over her. Arthur would only then be able to sleep peacefully. He would go to school each day, exhausted, and still somehow make passable grades. His mother made money her own way, her dirty blonde hair often streaked with a substance Arthur didn't ask the origins of. He would tell her to wash. She wouldn't, not until that evening. Then she would clean up nicely and get dressed, leave, and the processes would begin anew. Over and over. Arthur's heart would break each time.

Arthur would learn to be a kind man, striving to protect the dignities and futures of his students.


End file.
